It was the first time I’d seen a mosh pit at a bike race; the infield packed with nocturnal partisan party people determined to drink Ghent dry while the distorted PA blasted everything from ‘Sweet Caroline’ to the cheesiest ‘oompah’, a playlist that hasn’t required a refresh since the early 80s, the assembled choir chant singing choruses you don’t know but everyone else does.

Ghent’s ‘t Kuipke velodrome is the mecca of six-day racing, the Z6sdaagse Vlaanderen-Gent (Ghent 6-day) the pinnacle. Riders and spectators determined to have a good time from the first round of Belgian waves that introduce the riders early evening, through local legend Iljo Keisse cutting laps while air-guitaring to Plastic Bertrand’s ‘Ca plane pour Moi’ in between races, to lights up kicking out time at 2am.

Warmed up by Sprint and U23 support acts, the main event is a display of speed and skill and showmanship. Riders tag-team throughout the night, grasping at rest in their curtained cabins, passing so close to the barriers you can hear their breathing over the crowds, their sweat glistening under the lights, their performance sound-tracked by the derny dogfight.

The racing is there, but the Ghent 6-Day is more. A line of Geri Halliwell’s congo through an impromptu plastic-cup jumping competition held by a party of Vikings, while an old crooner dressed like an extra from The Love Boat karaoke shuffles his way around the apron, flanked by four scantily carnival dressed dancers for protection.

Weirdly, the VIP lounge has only two tiny screens to show the action from the arena, not that anyone there was bothering, those there to be seen and not see.

Despite the oceans of beer sunk, kicking out time was playful and joyful. No dregs needing to be dragged out, the party simply continuing down in Iljo’s Dad’s pub, De Karper, just a stones throw away. Albeit far too small to contain the hordes, the authorities not worried about the spill onto the surrounding pavement and roads.

Returning the following day for the next session, you are instantly curious of what industrial chemical had been released to cull the stale smell of beer and hot dogs and overflowing toilets that was so prominent the end of the previous night, the whole circus playing out again for another night and another night.

I’d been kindly granted full-access on my next trip to Ghent, visiting during another ‘Holy Week’ pilgrimage, with the intention to capture the venue sleeping. Inside was ghostly, the boards under wraps for protection until the next meet, the peeling paint décor showing its age under the dimed light of a rainy Belgium day.

The arena caretaker enjoyed our curiosity, guiding us through the bowels of the bowl to where only the riders and the inner sanctum are normally allowed, the wind outside echoing through the ducts to mimic the roar of the crowd and the drone of the derny. Then, leading us up to the track itself, unveiling to show the 166.67m finish line marker, and to where the curtained cabins will be built on the edge of the apron. 

Year after year the rafters shake under the strain of the legends hurtling around and around the walls past the walls of cheers and admiration, a black and white snapshot of racing of old retold for the screen generation. As with many races and many places in this area, you must visit, you must witness. Only then will you get it, only then will you understand.

*Want to experience all that Belgium has to offer for the serious cobblestone connoisseur? Chainslap can help guide you through the Spring Classics, riding the pavé and partying at the biggest and best races of the Pro racing calendar. contact@chainslpmag.com for details.